The Mayor of Casterbridge. Томас Харди
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had an appetite; and they inquired of the woman for the nearest baker’s.
‘Ye may as well look for manna-food as good bread in Casterbridge just now,’ she said, after directing them. ‘They can blare their trumpets and thump their drums, and have their roaring dinners’—waving her hand towards a point further along the street, where the brass band could be seen standing in front of an illuminated building—‘but we must needs be put-to for want of a wholesome crust. There’s less good bread than good beer in Casterbridge now.’
‘And less good beer than swipes,’ said a man with his hands in his pockets.
‘How does it happen there’s no good bread?’ asked Mrs Henchard.
‘Oh, ’tis the corn-factor—he’s the man that our millers and bakers all deal wi’, and he has sold ’em growed wheat, which they didn’t know was growed, so they say, till the dough ran all over the ovens like quicksilver; so that the loaves be as flat as toads, and like suet pudden inside. I’ve been a wife, and I’ve been a mother, and I never see such unprincipled bread in Casterbridge as this before.—But you must be a real stranger here not to know what’s made all the poor volks’ insides plim like blowed bladders this week?’ ‘I am,’ said Elizabeth’s mother shyly.
Not wishing to be observed further till she knew more of her future in this place, she withdrew with her daughter from the speaker’s side. Getting a couple of biscuits at the shop indicated as a temporary substitute for a meal, they next bent their steps instinctively to where the music was playing.
* Most of these old houses have now been pulled down (1912).
* These chimes, like those of other country churches, have been silenced for many years.
A few score yards brought them to the spot where the town band was now shaking the window-panes with the strains of ‘The Roast Beef of Old England’.
The building before whose doors they had pitched their music-stands was the chief hotel in Casterbridge—namely, the King’s Arms. A spacious bow-window projected into the street over the main portico, and from the open sashes came the babble of voices, the jingle of glasses, and the drawing of corks. The blinds, moreover, being left unclosed, the whole interior of this room could be surveyed from the top of a flight of stone steps to the road-waggon office opposite, for which reason a knot of idlers had gathered there.
‘We might, perhaps, after all, make a few inquiries about—our relation Mr Henchard,’ whispered Mrs Newson who, since her entry into Casterbridge had seemed strangely weak and agitated. ‘And this, I think, would be a good place for trying it—just to ask, you know, how he stands in the town—if he is here, as I think he must be. You, Elizabeth-Jane, had better be the one to do it. I’m too worn out to do anything—pull down your fall first.’
She sat down upon the lowest step, and Elizabeth-Jane obeyed her directions and stood among the idlers.
‘What’s going on tonight?’ asked the girl, after singling out an old man and standing by him long enough to acquire a neighbourly right to converse.
‘Well, ye must be a stranger sure,’ said the old man, without taking his eyes from the window. ‘Why, ’tis a great public dinner of the gentle-people and such like leading volk—wi’ the Mayor in the chair. As we plainer fellows bain’t invited, they leave the winder-shutters open that we may get jist a sense o’t out here. If you mount the steps you can see ’em. That’s Mr Henchard, the Mayor, at the end of the table, a facing ye; and that’s the Council men right and left … Ah, lots of them when they begun life were no more than I be now!’
‘Henchard!’ said Elizabeth-Jane, surprised, but by no means suspecting the whole force of the revelation. She ascended to the top of the steps.
Her mother, though her head was bowed, had already caught from the inn-window tones that strangely riveted her attention before the old man’s words, ‘Mr Henchard, the Mayor’, reached her ears. She arose, and stepped up to her daughter’s side as soon as she could do so without showing exceptional eagerness.
The interior of the hotel dining-room was spread out before her, with its tables, and glass, and plate, and inmates. Facing the window, in the chair of dignity, sat a man about forty years of age; of heavy frame, large features, and commanding voice; his general build being rather coarse than compact. He had a rich complexion, which verged on swarthiness, a flashing black eye, and dark, bushy brows and hair. When he indulged in an occasional loud laugh at some remark among the guests, his large mouth parted so far back as to show to the rays of the chandelier a full score or more of the two-and-thirty sound white teeth that he obviously still could boast of.
That laugh was not encouraging to strangers; and hence it may have been well that it was rarely heard. Many theories might have been built upon it. It fell in well with conjectures of a temperament which would have no pity for weakness, but would be ready to yield ungrudging admiration to greatness, and strength. Its producer’s personal goodness, if he had any, would be of a very fitful cast—an occasional almost oppressive generosity rather than a mild and constant kindness.
Susan Henchard’s husband—in law, at least—sat before them, matured in shape, stiffened in line, exaggerated in traits; disciplined, thought-marked—in a word, older. Elizabeth, encumbered with no recollections as her mother was, regarded him with nothing more than the keen curiosity and interest which the discovery of such unexpected social standing in the long-sought relative naturally begot. He was dressed in an old-fashioned evening suit, an expanse of frilled shirt showing on his broad breast; jewelled studs, and a heavy gold chain. Three glasses stood at his right hand; but, to his wife’s surprise, the two for wine were empty, while the third, a tumbler, was half full of water.
When last she had seen him he was sitting in a corduroy jacket, fustian waistcoat and breeches, and tanned leather leggings, with a basin of hot furmity before him. Time, the magician, had wrought much here. Watching him, and thus thinking of past days, she became so moved that she shrank back against the jamb of the waggon-office doorway to which the steps gave access, the shadow from it conveniently hiding her features. She forgot her daughter till a touch from Elizabeth-Jane aroused her. ‘Have you seen him, mother?’ whispered the girl.
‘Yes, yes,’ answered her companion hastily. ‘I have seen him, and it is enough for me! Now I only want to go—pass away—die.’
‘Why—O what?’ She drew closer, and whispered in her mother’s ear, ‘Does he seem to you not likely to befriend us? I thought he looked a generous man. What a gentleman he is, isn’t he? And how his diamond studs shine! How strange that you should have said he might be in the stocks, or in the workhouse, or dead! Did ever anything go more by contraries! Why do you feel so afraid of him? I am not at all; I’ll call upon him—he can but say he don’t own such remote kin.’
‘I don’t know at all—I can’t tell what to set about. I feel so down.’
‘Don’t be that, mother, now we have got here and all! Rest there where you be a little while—I will look on and find out more about him.’
‘I don’t think I can ever meet Mr Henchard. He is not how I thought he would be—he overpowers me! I don’t wish to see him any more.’
‘But wait a little time and consider.’
Elizabeth-Jane had never been so much interested in anything in her life as in their present position, partly from the natural elation she felt at discovering herself akin to a coach; and she gazed again at the scene. The younger guests were talking and eating with animation; their elders were searching for titbits, and sniffing and grunting over their plates like sows nuzzling for acorns. Three drinks seemed to be sacred to the company—port, sherry, and rum; outside which old-established trinity few or no palates